


Why He Wasn't There

by azriona



Series: Advent Calendar Drabbles 2014 [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent Calendar Drabble, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-14
Updated: 2014-12-14
Packaged: 2018-03-01 11:13:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2770949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man and a woman exchange vows – and someone watches from the side.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why He Wasn't There

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/gifts).



> The fourteenth installment of the Advent Calendar Drabbles. All fics are titled with the prompt. Today’s prompt is from wendymr, who requested that Greg go to Mycroft to find out why he wasn’t at the wedding. She also requested “Mystrade, but not established relationship”. Well. I sort of got that part right. (It occurred to me after that I could have gone in a TOTALLY different [Johncroft] direction with this, which would have been hysterical, but ah well, opportunities lost.)
> 
> The song being played is [Clair de Lune](http://youtu.be/-LXl4y6D-QI) by Claude Debussy. And yes, I was listening on repeat as I wrote. The story may or may not match up to the music, depending on how quickly you read.

The house was mostly dark when he came home – just a trail of lights that began in the foyer and led back through the long hallway to the rear of the house.  Greg could hear the faint strains of the piano echoing down the panel-lined hall.  _Clair de Lune._   Most days, hearing him play the piano was a pleasant way to come home.  Tonight, though…

 

Greg dropped his keys on the table near the door, hung up his hat and coat.  He shucked his shoes, kicking them to the side so that they were at least out of the way, should the inevitable argument prove to end with one of them storming out of the house.

 

(Not Greg, though.  He was tired and a little bit drunk, and anyway, if he’d had any intention of storming out of the house he would have left the shoes on in the first place.)

 

The music played steadily on as Greg walked through the dimly lit hall, switching off lights as he went.  The darkness closed behind him, as if the entire house settled, disappeared into nothing, and the only thing that existed was the room ahead, with the clear and bright notes of the piano being played, drawing him in.

 

He stood in the doorway for a moment.  The pianist’s back was to him; smooth lines under the dark red jumper.  His sleeves were rolled up his forearms to allow him room to play, the bright white cloth of his shirt glowing in the dim light.

 

“You could come in,” said Mycroft Holmes without pausing as he played.

 

“You could have come tonight,” said Greg without moving as he drank him in.

 

Mycroft’s hands paused on the keys – a convenient pause in the music, but Greg heard the pause for what it really was – emphasis on the words that Mycroft would say next.

 

“No.”

 

“Mycroft—“

 

“Hardly appropriate,” said Mycroft smoothly.  “Besides, you were there.  For some of it, at least.”

 

Greg sighed.  “Christ – if you knew there was a murderer there—“

 

“Not until after the fact, I assure you.  I trust the major will make a full recovery.”

 

“You know he will.”

 

“I know no such thing.”

 

Greg fell silent, listening to the music rise and fall.  It wasn’t a terribly long song, but Mycroft kept playing it.  He wondered how many times Mycroft had played it already.

 

“John and Mary wouldn’t have minded if you’d been there.”

 

“I’m sure the bride and groom had quite enough stress without my presence adding to it.”

 

“John likes you.”

 

“John tolerates me,” said Mycroft shortly.  “As Mary – her opinion is beside the point.  I dare say you were the only one to miss my absence.”

 

“I know Sherlock was looking for you.”

 

“Perhaps,” said Mycroft, “I did not wish to attend a wedding with you, when I have already attended weddings with you.”

 

“You’ve been to exactly one wedding with me,” pointed out Greg.  “And you can’t exactly say you were _with_ me, since it was _my_ wedding.”

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Me,” realized Greg.  “You didn’t want to go because of me?”

 

The music was quieter; slow and sweet, a sleeping heartbeat in the distance.  Greg crossed the floor as it picked up a bit, and stood behind Mycroft.  He rested his hands on Mycroft’s shoulders, feeling the muscles move under the fabric and skin, warm and alive and fluid. 

 

Mycroft continued to play, his eyes focused on the keys under his fingers.  The piano was louder when Greg stood next to it; if he listened, he could hear the creak of the bench where Mycroft sat, the thump of the pedals at his feet, the soft workings of the gears and hammers inside as they hit the strings.

 

Greg pushed his hands gently into Mycroft’s shoulders, almost kneading him, before he leaned over pressed the side of his mouth to Mycroft’s cheek.  Mycroft was warm, had showered sometime that evening.  His hair was damp; his skin was freshly shaved, and he smelled like soap and aftershave, clean and delicious.

 

“You didn’t want to be my plus one.”

 

“I would have hardly been that, Gregory.”

 

“You would have been, though,” insisted Greg. 

 

“Very true.”

 

“I don’t care.  If they know about us.”

 

“You say that as if you think I will believe you.”

 

“You should.”

 

“I do,” said Mycroft, and the words caught in his throat.  Greg sat on the bench next to him, his back to the piano, just in time to see Mycroft swallow, over and over, before he spoke again.  “Think of it… as an act of self-preservation.”

 

“Self-preservation?” echoed Greg.

 

Mycroft’s hands moved gently on the keys, pressing them down with infinite care and precision.  Greg had no idea how Mycroft was able to continue playing so well – and yet he did, even through the midst of an argument that wasn’t so much an argument as it was… whatever it was.

 

Greg listened to the music for a moment.  He was a little bit drunk.  He was tired, and lonely, and thought of having watched John and Mary exchange their vows, with Sherlock standing to the side.  It had been familiar, in a way, reminding him of his own wedding twenty years before.  Molly Hooper had smiled shyly at him in a way that he thought she meant to be supportive, no doubt assuming he watched a young couple make their vows and couldn’t help remembering his broken ones. 

 

Sweet, to be sure, but not _quite_ accurate.

 

“Bit close to home, I suppose,” said Greg finally, and rested his forehead on Mycroft’s shoulder.

 

“Yes.  A bit.”

 

Greg turned his head, just enough to watch Mycroft’s hands on the keys.  “All right, then.”

 

The music swirled around them, quick and then slow, slow and then careful, careful and then note by note, until it faded into the night.

 


End file.
